The Photograph
by The Wandering Pen
Summary: This piece came into being because there are no *known* photographs of Okita Souji in existence, so what about unknown ones? It also served the purpose of jump-starting my muse, who has been all-too-quiet lately. Enjoy. Oh, and, please review.
1. Chapter 1

The Photograph

Part 1 - 1866

Okita came through the gates to Nishi-honganji Temple, the Shinsengumi headquarters, to one of the oddest scenes he'd ever encountered. Commander Kondo was sitting in full uniform on a stool with his face powdered white and looking frighteningly stern. Behind him hung a curtain of some pale fabric and in front of him was a fussy man in a black Western style suit with a box mounted on a tripod. The front side of the box had a round shiny object on it and the back had a heavy black curtain attached around the edges. The fussy man would disappear under the curtain and then pop back out and order his assistant to adjust parts of Kondo's clothes or equipment or make-up. The comedian trio, commonly known as Harada Sanosuke, Nagakura Shinpachi, and Todo Heisuke, were horsing around behind the fussy man at a safe distance from his equipment, doing their darnedest to make Kondo smile but it wasn't working. Hijikata Toshizo, demon Vice-Commander of the Shinsengumi, was leaning against a pillar, an expression of aggrieved suffering on his face. Souji sidled up to him.

"So what's going on?"

"Katchan is preserving his mug for posterity."

The fussy man gave a few short orders and then took a leather cap off the round metal piece on the box. Kondo sat stiffly despite a persistent fly buzzing circles around his head. The comedians redoubled their efforts.

"He's doing what?" Souji asked.

"It's a Western photograph." Hijikata said the last word carefully, as it wasn't Japanese.

"Ah! So that boxy thing is the camera." Souji was just as careful with his new foreign word. He'd heard of western cameras and seen a few photographs, but had never seen one being made. It looked uncomfortable.

"It's ridiculous," Hijikata snorted. "We have a job to do and he's dressing up like a kabuki actor. Those three idiots are acting like five-year-olds instead of troop captains, and you're not even here half the time."

Souji lifted an eyebrow. Toshi was obviously out of sorts today and ready to find fault with everything, but Okita only said mildly, "It was my day off. I went to the temple like I always do."

"To make cows eyes at that girl."

"I like being with her. She makes me feel alive." He would not let Toshi goad him into an argument and spoil a day spent with O-Chisa.

"How alive can she make you feel if you're not even having sex with her yet?" Hijikata snorted. "Everything's falling apart. Katchan's already feeling his daimyo status, you're lovesick…what else is going to happen?" He stalked away and Souji settled onto a stone bench, watching the comedians. The variety of expressions those three could make was truly impressive. Even more impressive was Kondo's refusal to give in to their shenanigans as he stoically glared at the camera.

Finally, the photographer put the leather cap back onto the lens. Kondo took a deep breath and waved away the fly, still zipping in circles above his head. He moved with dignity through the courtyard and made his way to his quarters to wash and change, not even bothering to admonish his captains for their behavior. Harada, Nagakura, and Todo turned their horseplay onto each other, throwing good-natured jibes and mock punches. Harada got Todo in a headlock and started scrubbing his knuckles against the younger man's scalp amid much laughter and yelping.

Souji just smiled softly. The long walk back from the temple had tired him and he didn't feel like joining in. It was enough to sit in the sun and watch them and dream of O-Chisa, replaying their day over in his head. They never did much except walk through the temple gardens, admiring the flowers or the clouds, and maybe talk about things they liked or thought. Not much was ever said of the future, although she knew of his illness and its effects. Her mother had died of the same, after all. She understood better than anyone what he was dealing with. He never told her about his work. She didn't know what he did. As far as she was concerned, he taught swordsmanship at a dojo, that was all. He didn't want her tainted by the Shinsengumi's reputation through associating with him. The less she knew about it, the better.

Souji was unaware that the photographer had ordered his assistant to make him a new glass negative plate and had slipped it into place in the camera. Fussy he might well be, but Kaburabi Minejiro knew the new art of photography and he had never seen such a likely portrait subject as the young samurai sitting on the bench. His very stillness as he watched the other men was essential to a good, clear picture, his setting provided good contrast, and the young man himself would catch any lady's eye. His features were regular, his lips slightly turned up in a smile, eyes crinkled a little at the corners, and there was an ethereal look to him overall. One could almost think that if one blinked, he would be gone. A picture of this young man could pull people into his studio who wouldn't normally give it a second glance. Kaburabi hummed a child's tune under his breath. If he could get through it three times in this lighting before the samurai moved, he'd have his picture.

It was his lucky day. He'd just snapped the cover back on over the lens when his subject jumped up off the bench to follow the other three samurai as they left the courtyard for somewhere in the back of the headquarters. Kaburabi and his assistant repacked the camera gear, carefully stacking the glass plates in their light-proof holders into a basket that his assistant would carry back to his shop. He carried the camera himself as they headed to the gate. There was no one left in the area except the gate guards; he was hoping one of them could tell him who the young samurai was.

"Sorry," one said to his inquiry. "We weren't paying attention. Our job is to watch who approaches the gate from the outside, not what's going on inside."

Well, it didn't matter. A face like that would sell his services even if he didn't know who the man was. He could always ask when he returned with the prints made from the Commander's sitting. He headed back to his studio to develop the glass plates.


	2. Chapter 2

The Photograph

Part 2 - 1901

Okita Mitsu moved slowly along the sidewalk, with a slight hitch in her walk. She was a short, iron-haired woman of 68 years, dressed in a linen kimono of chocolate brown with gold peonies and green bamboo leaves printed across it. Her skin was soft and pale, wrinkled by time, but showing a gentle humor in the lines. Her eyes seemed faded, but were really an odd, pale grey. She carried a bundle in both hands, pressed carefully to her breast to protect it from passers-by: a gift for her younger son, who she was going to meet. She had plenty of time to get there. Years of arthritis had taught her to always allow more than enough time to get where she needed to go, to kneel where there was something to hold on to help get her back onto her feet, and to take a warm bath whenever possible.

She window-shopped as she walked, marveling even after all these years over some of the things imported from the western countries. Some of the items seemed almost like magic, and others simply ridiculous, but all were interesting. Her favorite shop, though, was the antique shop, although she scoffingly said that if she could remember it being used in her lifetime, it wasn't an antique yet. Still, there were things in the shop that reminded her of her childhood, and there were always new things in the window.

"Pretty," she murmured under her breath at the tea set decorated with delicately painted cherry blossoms. The maker's mark on the bottom of one cup, exposed to advertise the quality of the set, read "Niitsu Kakunoshin". The price tag had her shaking her head. She'd never been able to afford a set like that in her entire life. Her eyes skipped over a gaudy jade and pearl brush and mirror set and riveted on a photograph framed in silver.

It was a young man in a light-colored kimono with a slightly darker geometric print, dark hakama with pale pinstripes, white tabi, and worn wooden geta. Two swords were thrust through his belt, showing his status as a samurai. His hair was tied up in a high top-knot, the dark mass spilling down to his waist, but his crown was not shaven. In fact, long bangs hung down over his eyes and in front of his ears, dating him to the late Edo period. His face was ethereally handsome – thin, with regular features and wide eyes that in the picture appeared almost clear. He was looking away from the camera at something going on to his right. A faint smile played across his lips and crinkled the corners of his eyes.

Mitsu's hand had come up unconsciously, wanting to cup that face. Her feet propelled her into the shop.

"Excuse me," she said to the harried-looking proprietor. "The picture of the samurai in the window – how much is it?"

The man barely looked at her as he named a figure; the fat woman in the too-bright kimono across the counter from him was demanding all his attention and there were four more people lined up behind her.

Mitsu was appalled. "Surely it can't be so much…"

"That's the price. Samurai pictures are collectable – I don't expect that one to be here long. The last one I had sold for half again as much, but it had a better frame. If you want it, take it and stand in line." He turned away and continued to wrap the fat lady's numerous purchases.

Mitsu slowly turned away, leaving the store but lingering a moment in front of the photograph in the window. Then she set herself in the direction she'd originally been walking, but now moving as briskly as she could.

Three hours later, she returned, her son in tow.

"It was here, Taro. This shop." She moved faster, dragging him towards the window despite the ache in her hip. She was going to pay for all this walking tomorrow. "It's right…"

Mitsu stopped, staring at the place where the photograph had been. She looked wildly around the display – yes, there was the pretty tea set, the gaudy mirror, but the picture was gone. She stumbled inside.

The proprietor was still there, but looking much less busy now. Only one other man was in the shop, and obviously a friend or a frequent visitor, as there was a teapot and two half-empty cups sitting between them.

"Excuse me," she said, breaking into their conversation. "The photograph of the samurai – remember I asked you about it earlier? It's not in the window…"

"Oh, yeah. Sold it about half an hour ago. Told you it wouldn't last long in here. People really like those old pictures."

"But…"

"I get a lot of those in, with times being kind of hard," the proprietor said to his friend. "A couple of samurai pictures a week, and none of them stay long despite the economy. Makes me think I should be charging more."

"Come on, Mother," Taro said kindly, guiding her towards the door. "There's no help for it; we're too late." Mitsu moved numbly.

"But they can't have sold it," she said softly as they stepped outside. "That was my little brother…my Soujiro…"


	3. Chapter 3

The Photograph

Part 3 – 1990

Duncan MacLeod hefted the last box onto the cluttered counter in the back room of the antique store, nudging another box over to get a little more room without dumping either, or both, boxes onto the floor. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, dark eyed and with long, dark brown hair tied into a ponytail at his nape. His movements had the kind of grace that came with perfect balance. His significant other, Tessa, was already digging into one of the first boxes they'd brought in from a recent outing to an estate sale. To be sure, there would be plenty of junk in these boxes, but he'd seen enough of the contents before he'd bid on them to know that the treasures within would more than pay for the rest.

"I've got to go move the car," he said. "I'll be right back."

Tessa nodded to show she'd heard and Duncan stepped out into spring sunshine, closing the door carefully behind him. Under the "MacLeod and Noël Antiques" logo on the door, the shop's hours were listed, showing that they were closed today, but he'd learned by experience that people didn't always read the information. If the door was open, they'd go in and then be offended when he or Tessa would politely escort them out again.

Moving the black 1964 Thunderbird into the cramped space behind the shop was the work of a minute or two, and then Duncan was locking the door behind him as he came back inside.

"I just can't believe that anyone would put cheap plastic things on a shelf right next to such beautiful art," Tessa said as he entered the back room, holding up a bright blue injection-molded dolphin in one hand and an intricately carved walrus tusk in the other. Blonde and willowy, she had a kind of casual elegance that wasn't diminished by a smudge of dirt on one high cheekbone. Her French accent flowed like water to his ears and never ceased to lift his heart just to hear it. In all of his almost 400 years of living, he'd never met anyone who could make him feel so young. Blessed, or cursed, with Immortality since his first death in Scotland in a fight with the Campbell Clan in 1622, Duncan had resigned himself to a lack of belonging anywhere, but with Tessa, he was home.

He smiled as she blew several puffs of air across the tusk, trying to dislodge a couple of decades of dust from its multiple layers with little success. "We are going to have to do some serious cleaning before we can set these out."

"Anyone who would pack their house so full of things that there was only a narrow walking path from one room to the next was obviously more interested in quantity than quality," Duncan replied. "Or maybe they just lacked taste. Or maybe they had a very broad range of taste."

"Or maybe they just didn't know when to let go." Tessa tossed the plastic dolphin towards the garbage can and set the tusk reverently aside.

Twenty minutes later, the number of boxes on the counter had decreased and there were three distinct piles in the room. The smallest and most valuable was the actual antiques on the counter. The largest pile was junk and it overflowed two garbage cans and had a good start on one of the boxes. The middle pile was useful non-antiques that they could donate to charity and get a tax write-off for. Duncan was examining a piece of beaded leather near the back window, looking for subtle indications that would tell him if it was original 1870's Blackfoot work or a contemporary knock-off when he heard Tessa say:

"Oh, my."

"What?" he asked, looking up.

She came up to the window next to him, rubbing with a rag at the glass in a picture frame and peering at the contents with a kind of bemused expression.

"I don't think I've ever seen such a beautiful man."

"Well, thank you, but you see me every day," he joked.

Tessa laughed, a little self-consciously. "You are handsome, and I'm sure I'm not the first to tell you so, but this…wow."

"Should I be worried?" He grinned. After ten years, nothing could worry him about their relationship. She knew what he was and accepted him, and he'd never found anyone in his long life who fit him like she did.

"Well, no, considering he's probably long dead. I do say probably because he might be someone you know and then anything is possible. When would you say this was taken? And where? It looks Japanese to me."

She handed him the picture. Although the glass was dirty, the picture inside the frame appeared to be in good condition: a black and white photograph of a thin young samurai looking to his right and smiling at something.

"Hm, kimono and hakama, two swords, hair in a long topknot and not shaven in front, and this is a photo instead of a drawing – probably late Edo period." At Tessa's questioning look, he clarified: "1860's, maybe. After Perry's black ships entered Edo harbor – that's Tokyo today – a lot of the old traditions among the younger men started to disappear. They still put their hair up in the topknot, but didn't cut it short and tie it over the top of a shaven crown like the older generation. This was the young bucks' flaunting their hair as a challenge to fight. You had to be good to wear it this long and not risk someone grabbing it or whacking it off and shaming you. He's carrying two swords, so he's samurai and it's not very far into the Meiji era when the law banning the wearing of swords was enacted. I can't imagine that photography was very common through the 1850's or early '60's, so I think we're looking at a pretty narrow window of time here."

"Any idea of where it was taken? There's some sort of building behind him." Tessa pointed.

"That's one hell of a gatehouse. Where have I seen..." Duncan looked up towards the ceiling, thinking, then back at the picture. "Yep, that's it – Kyoto. This is one of the big temples, but I can't remember which one right now. Let's clean it up a bit and hang onto it. The next time I see my friend, Kenshin, I'll ask him. He's from about this era and he was in Kyoto, so even though there were probably hundreds of samurai who looked very similar, he might at least recognize the place."

Tessa laughed and slipped an arm about his waist. "The advantage of having friends from all over time as well as space. I'm glad there are some friends."

Duncan smiled into her hair and hugged her in return. "Yes, there are."

He wouldn't tell her about the ones who weren't. Hopefully, she'd never need to know about them.

She did learn, eventually, but they weren't the ones who killed her. That was just a random street punk looking for a ride. Heartsick, Duncan closed the shop and put everything into boxes in a warehouse, including a black-and-white photograph of an unknown samurai in a tarnished silver frame.

The End


End file.
